


Doesn't Seem to be a Shadow in the city

by thought



Series: You don't have to go home in a straight line [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Agender Character, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Canon Disabled Character, F/F, Multi, Other, canon neurodivergent character, root/apples
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 15:32:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7177505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>June 2005: Sameen Shaw is part of the queer community whether she likes it or not. Root is the one who benefits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doesn't Seem to be a Shadow in the city

**Author's Note:**

> With many many thanks to [Spicy Cheese](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/spicycheese) and [AliceInKinkland](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/aliceinkinkland) for the super speedy and super helpful betas! You're both fantastic, thank you for answering my call into the void.  
> This is set in the same universe as Snow in New York Some Blue December, which you don't necessarily need to read, but will probably improve your experience. And before you ask, yes, there is a giant time/plot gap between the two fics. Just roll with it, I'm hoping to write something with actual plot to fill it in.

Early in her M3 surgery rotation Shaw makes the fatal mistake of letting Root pick her up at the end of her shift. By the next evening all three professional white gay men she sees on a regular basis (one doctor, one resident, one x-ray tech) have adopted her as the "token lesbian". The brunch invitations start the next week, and there's three entire days where the only thing they talk about is how horrifying and shameful it is that she has never watched Queer as Folk.

She complains to Cole first, which gets her a rant on the various three letter agencies trying to recruit him and their history and current terrible policies on being queer. When she complains to Root, Root just laughs at her. Root has never been shy about her opinion that the only benefits to Shaw's chosen profession are the mental challenge and the paycheque (Shaw adds 'very low chance of being arrested for murder' to that list, Root steals the last slice of chocolate cake and pouts for at least an hour). Shaw's mother reminds her that networking helps to guarantee future employment. Shaw hates them all.

All of this to say, Shaw is spending her Pride Saturday hunched in an uncomfortable plastic chair while the sun beats down relentlessly, handing out pamphlets at the LGBT Physicians of New York State booth. Technically she's supposed to be talking to the public, too, but she'd warned Dr. West when she'd been voluntold for the shift that her tolerance for interacting with people didn't extend to elucidating the fascinating history of queer medical professionals to every day-drunk half-naked twenty-something or uncomfortable brave little toaster soccer mom who looked her way.

She's on shift with Dr. Pillay who is her fellow prisoner for the required two hours, because somebody clearly wanted to emphasize the magic of diversity. A medical transcriptionist who had introduced herself as Karen is in the back of the booth with her wife painting the back of her wheelchair with rainbow glitter, and Bill the x-ray tech keeps appearing then disappearing, trying to connect with his boyfriend. Shaw is unsympathetic. She's seen his car. He can afford a fucking cell phone. That being said, Bill is as tall as a tree and lets Shaw hide behind him every time the baby Heart Specialist that Shaw had met that morning wanders past to make heart eyes at Shaw and ask her out for coffee. The grapevine says she's some sort of protegy from the wilds of Minnesota, and she's hot enough, but she's also wearing a shirt with a rainbow heart on the front and mentioned offhand that she wishes dogs weren't allowed at Pride Fest.

Shaw's downing a bottle of water and trying to keep a stack of bookmarks from gusting away in the wind, so she doesn't see Root until she's practically standing right over her. Shaw knows her plane wasn't meant to get in until that evening, but she's obviously had time to go back to the apartment and freshen up, because her hair is still damp and shampoo scented, and she's wearing a red and black sundress that Shaw last saw hanging over the back of her desk chair. Shaw can see the faint outline of her binder through the thin cotton of the dress, and she's managed to find a scarf patterned with rainbow bats, which she's draped over her shoulders in what is probably meant to be some kind of nod towards sun protection. Shaw has started making bets with herself as to when Root is finally going to grow out of her rebellious goth phase. Shaw puts her water bottle down on top of the bookmarks and grabs one of the little sachets of sunscreen they've been giving out.

"Turn," she says, pointing. "I'll do your back."

Root huffs a laugh. "Hello to you too. What, no welcome home kiss?"

Shaw glares. "Take one of these. Do your face and your arms. I'm not putting up with your whining when you get burned."

Root tips her head to the side. "Your lack of faith hurts, Sameen. How do you know I'm not wearing sunscreen?"

Shaw doesn't even bother to reply, just grabs her phone out of her backpack and, making sure nobody else is paying attention to them, holds it near her mouth and asks "has she taken appropriate measures to prevent sunburn?"

'no,' the response flashes across the screen of her phone immediately. Shaw nods in satisfaction.

"I rest my case."

Root takes a packet of sunscreen without further comment. Shaw stands to smooth the lotion over her exposed shoulders and neck. Her skin is already warmer than usual, and Shaw can feel the muscles knotted across her upper back from being hunched over a computer for too long.

Once she's appropriately coated Shaw grabs another chair and drags it over beside hers, having to slide it back a bit to make room for the cardboard box of T-shirts on the ground. Root folds down gratefully, setting a cloth bag down on top of the cooler of water and juice they're keeping hidden for volunteers.

"I brought fruit," she says. "I didn't know if you'd had a chance to eat."

"You couldn't have brought protein?" Shaw asks, frowning at the baskets of blueberries and the bag of apples.

"I didn't want to stand in line," Root says. "Besides, Sameen, this is magical fruit and we're going to enjoy all $20 worth of it."

"You went to the organic place, didn't you?"

"$20!"

"You could have gotten so many burgers," Shaw says longingly. Root reaches past her towards the bucket of candy on the table, but Shaw swats her hand away.

"That's to lure people in. Not for us. And also it's all gummy candy, so you won't like the texture anyway."

Root wrinkles her nose. "It seems kind of ironic for doctors to be handing out candy," she says.

"Clearly you never deserved a lollypop when you were a kid," Shaw says. Root sticks out her tongue. Shaw wonders how often Root had actually ever seen a doctor throughout her childhood and makes a note to find out before she accidentally makes her feel shitty.

"The candy is to make up for Sameen's welcoming personality," Bill says, swooping in and stealing a handful of blueberries. Root twitches. There's a streak of glitter down Bill's cheek, and his T-shirt is wet and going see-through.

"And here I thought it was a reward for putting up with you," Shaw says, flatly.

Bill beams at Root. "You must be Sam's partner. Bill Skywalker. I work with Sam in surgery and yes, I have heard every possible Star Wars joke, yes even that one, please don't."

"Pleasure," Root says, clearly not even trying to sound sincere. she doesn't shake his hand. "I'm Root."

Shaw hides her smirk. Root turns her body deliberately so she's got her back to Bill. Shaw can smell cooking meat and frying mini doughnuts wafting through the air. She takes an apple.

"If anyone makes a doctor joke I'm punching them in the face," she warns Root. Root grins and bites into her own apple.

A cluster of children rush up to the table, grabbing handfuls of candy before Shaw can intervene. Bill is fixing his hair in Dr. Pillay's compact.

"Ok," he says. "I'm gonna go, if Ryan comes by tell him I'm going to go suffer in line for the beer gardens."

"Ok," Shaw lies.

Root rests her chin in her palm. "Oh, wow, how did I not think to bring a flask? It would've made this so much easier."

"I'm surprised you came," Shaw says.

Root ducks her head. "I figured you could use some company."

"Thanks," says Shaw. She thinks for Root this is probably one of those romantic couple things, but just because Shaw doesn't really feel any squishy joy about it she still absolutely appreciates having somebody to talk to who isn't one of her goddamn coworkers. She'd been texting with The Machine off and on, but the disapproving glares from everyone she ignored to pay attention to her phone got annoying pretty fast.

Somewhere off to their left speakers boom to life, music thudding, muffled and unrecognizable, across the grounds. Shaw can feel the bass reverberating through her whole body. Root winces, clenching her teeth.

Shaw slides her chair back a bit so she can untangle her legs from the table. "Here, switch with me," she says. "That shit's gonna go on all day."

Root doesn't even argue, which makes Shaw think she's more tired than she's letting on. Once Shaw is on Root's left, Root carefully removes her sound processor and tucks it away in its case in her bag.

A kid who is definitely not old enough to be drinking the vodka in his water bottle stops right in front of Root.

"Hey, this is great," he says. "I'm going to apply for med school next year. Can you tell me a bit about what you guys do?"

"I'm just here to look pretty," Root says, cheerfully, jerking her head towards Shaw. "But she'll be happy to tell you all about it."

Shaw flips her off, but leans forward to talk to the kid nonetheless. Somebody's abandoned a pamphlet for one of the youth centres on their table, and Root grabs it up to look through while Shaw's busy.

The kid's got a lot of questions, and Shaw winds up giving not only Dr. West's card but also her own email address, scribbled on the back of the card. "I'm Sameen," she tells him, shoving the card at him . "Email me if you need advice that's actually useful in the future."

He grins. Shaw's already regretting her choice. "Thanks. I'm Will, by the way."

"Great," she says. He turns away, and Shaw looks over to find Root still studying the youth pamphlet with the sort of intensity she usually reserves for difficult code or knifeplay. She's fiddling with a mutilated button from one of the bars, scraping the pin back and forth over the back of her arm absently. Shaw takes it away from her and tosses it in the doughnut box that is apparently being used as a trash bag.

"Do I want to know what's caught your interest in that?" Shaw asks.

Root closes the pamphlet hurriedly, crumpling it and leaning over Shaw very close to drop it in the trash. "Terminology," she says, lightly, and makes a point of pressing herself right up against Shaw as she straightens up.

*

Root gets bored once all the apples are gone and she's run out of ways to judge Shaw's coworkers and Shaw has made it very clear that they're not slipping away to make out behind the bushes. She disappears for twenty minutes and comes back with a soggy cardboard container holding a greasy, over-priced burger and fries which she gives to Shaw, and a bunch of stupid little string bracelets that she ties on Shaw's arms while she's distracted by the food. By the time she's done Shaw looks like a box of magic markers threw up on her, and Root looks like she can't decide if she's dorkily proud of her bracelet attack or inconveniently turned on by spending ten minutes tying things to Shaw. Shaw smirks a bit. Serves her right.

In her adventures Root's also picked up a terribly designed flier for someone's local hand-made bondage gear (really?) and a zine that was probably printed out on a teenager's bedroom printer with bold purple letters across the front yelling 'FREE YOUR MIND AND YOUR ANDROGYNY!' (*really*?).

"Why hasn't anyone started a company to teach graphic design for gays?" Shaw asks darkly. "Somebody needs to make this stop."

The next shift of volunteers are all fifteen or twenty minutes late making it to the booth, and then Shaw spends a good ten minutes reiterating that 'no, she will not be back at six to help with take down, yes, really, and no, she's not the one who agreed to store the shirts and banners in her car, she doesn't even *have* a car, where the fuck did this even come from?'. While that's happening Root gets dragged into a conversation with some city official or another looking for photo ops, who doesn't seem to realize just how false her friendliness is. By the time Shaw escapes with Root and her bag of organic blueberries she's either heading straight for the beer gardens or she's going home. Root's bouncing along in her wake with that slightly distant grin that means her brain is having a great time even if her body feels like garbage. Shaw's usually very good at respecting Root's life choices, but she can feel Root's hand shaking in hers, and every now and then Root looks like it's taking all of her will power not to fall over. Shaw's also self-aware enough to admit that part of her is still lingering in doctor mode and doesn't like the way Root refuses to deal with her physical needs, and another part of her is very very aware of every single stupid string bracelet tied around her wrists and forearms and would really like Root to remain interested in more... physical activities for the course of the afternoon.

The line for the beer gardens probably violates a few fire safety codes, and Shaw takes two seconds to imagine standing out in the pounding sun for two hours surrounded by too-drunk or too-sober partiers and continues walking. Passing the fence someone yells at them from inside, and Shaw spots Joss leaning over the barrier waving furiously. Shaw pushes her way through the crowd, dragging a complacent Root along by the hand.

"Happy Pride," Joss says, as soon as they're close enough.

"Fucking kill me," Shaw retorts. Joss laughs at her.

"Where're you going tonight?"

Shaw frowns. "To bed?"

Root leans on her from behind, draping an arm over her shoulder and wiggling her fingers at Joss in greeting. "That comes later, sweetie. Where *should* we be going tonight, Joss?"

"I'll text you the address," Joss says. "It's not one of the official parties, and you'll have to pay cover, but I can also promise 80 percent less drugs and corporate sponsorship."

"We'll see," Shaw says. "Cole might have already said we'd go to the thing at the art gallery, and this one," she elbows Root gently, "is dead on her feet, so she might not be going anywhere."

"Lies," Root says. "I am absolutely going out, I've already picked out my outfit."

Joss gives her a thumbs up. "Email me pictures if you don't show up. I keep running into Zoe Morgan in the weirdest damn places and I need something to make small talk about."

Root squeaks indignantly. Shaw snorts. "Don't encourage her ego, please."

They leave Joss and walk five blocks to the nearest bus stop that isn't blocked off for the festival. Root makes sad eyes at the Starbucks on the corner, but Shaw drags her across the street before she can say anything. There's no air-conditioning on the bus, and traffic keeps their pace at a crawl. Root leans her shoulder against Shaw's and Shaw can feel her own frustration with the day ebbing away. Root's legs are long and bare under the dress and when Shaw bumps their calves together her skin is cool and smooth and dry even in the heat.

Most of the people sitting around them are clearly on their way from the festival, sporting over-sized logo T-shirts or cheaply made rainbow jewelry, arms and faces already showing signs of sunburn. A little girl across from them is eating a giant puff of brightly coloured cotton candy while the two women with her hunch over a map, arguing.

Shaw thinks it's all kind of exhausting, the aggressively cheerful positivity and surface-level shiny gloss welcoming barely out kids right into the bar scene with a handful of free condoms and a fake ID while companies sell the idealized image of one big happy queer family on posters and shirts and cruise lines. All this being said, she knows Root still finds the experience novel and reassuring, though she'd never admit it. Shaw still hasn't gotten much out of Root about her childhood, but it doesn't take much imagination to picture the results of growing up the queer kid of an alcoholic mother in small town Texas. That's not even taking into account the fucked up way Root grew up with the memory of her dead best friend, her mother's failed and inconsistent attempts at affection, and the uncertain guidance of an AI developmentally no older than she was her only connections to humanity. It's too much to look at head on, the fact that she's one of maybe four or five individuals on the entire planet that Root considers "good code" (or on bad days just more bad code that happens to be compatible with Root’s own bad code) so she tries not to think about it too often.

She likes to think that things like Pride, in their own tiny way, help to show Root that maybe not all the code is so terrible. Shaw had realized early on in their relationship that she couldn't take responsibility for changing Root's mindset, just like she had to make the conscious choice to accept what Root does for a living and the moral consequences of that choice. It already makes Shaw's skin itch when she and Cole have entire spreadsheets dedicated to planning their careers to match geographically and Root's column just contains a cheerful smiley face.

"I'll go where ever you go, Sameen," she'd said, the one time they'd talked about it.

Shaw won't let her pay off her student loans, but she'll let her help out with rent. It's a balancing act, and Shaw's very aware that there might come a day when it's not something she can do and still live with herself. She's also aware that there's a possibility it will become easier as time goes on, that Root's value to her as a person will outweigh any ethical concerns. Shaw's considered both possibilities in the abstract, but they both seem so distant that she can't bring herself to be concerned. She knows Root and The Machine have a whole complex set of agreements woven throughout their relationship, limits and boundaries and compromises and areas still up for debate, arguments that remain in the theoretical and therefore safe. Maybe when Shaw's been with Root for twelve years she'll have worked out a similar system.

When they get back to the apartment Shaw drags all three electric fans into her bedroom and closes the curtains to keep out the sun. Root lies on her back on the bed with her arms stretched up above her and her head tipped back, eyes unfocused in the way that means The Machine is talking to her. Shaw brings her a glass of water, poking her in the shoulder until she grudgingly sits up long enough to drink it all.

Shaw peels out of her shirt and shorts, flopping down beside Root in her bra and underwear. Her bed isn't big enough to let them lie without touching a little bit, but Root doesn't seem to mind.

"You gonna sleep?" Shaw asks.

"Maybe later," Root says. "Hopefully later. Oh, wow, I have a headache. I kept myself hydrated, what the fuck?"

Shaw groans. "You couldn't have realized this before I laid down?"

"It's fine. I'm going to get more water anyway."

Root staggers to her feet, and Shaw hears her moving around the kitchen, then going into Cole's room, probably to steal one of his prescription migraine painkillers. Outside a siren screams past, and a truck struggles to start.

When Root comes back she tugs her clothes off, leaving them in a pile on the floor and pulling down the blanket so she can sprawl directly on the sheets. She curls toward Shaw, scrunching into a ball so she can rest her face up against the curve of Shaw's waist. Shaw pets her hair carefully but she twitches away and doesn't settle until Shaw's hand has moved down to rub even circles on her back, still sticky with sun block. After a few minutes she starts to uncurl, one arm flopping to lie across Shaw's upper thighs. Shaw keeps her breathing even with an effort, resists the urge to squirm closer to Root's hand.

"These are fun," Root says, rolling her head so she can look up at the bracelets on Shaw's arm. "Maybe not your style."

"I can think of situations involving you tying me to things that are a lot more fun."

"Mmhm. That's going to be tonight's project. But for now..." she lifts her head so her chin rests on Shaw's hipbone. "I just wanna touch you for a while. You can touch me, but not yourself, and don't come unless I say it's ok."

Shaw does not miss the word choice, and her stomach swoops, hips jerking up a bit. Root drags a fingernail over Shaw's clit through her underwear and Shaw shivers. Root digs her chin hard into Shaw's hip and pushes her underwear aside, rubbing the pads of her fingers through the wetness she finds. Shaw digs her nails into the skin of Root's back and she can actually see the brief second during which she has to stop and figure out if she likes it or not. Apparently the results are positive, because she starts rubbing deliberate circles over Shaw's clit, and wraps her free arm across Shaw's torso, somewhere between a pin and a cuddle. Her long fingers fit comfortably in the dips of Shaw's ribcage and Shaw shifts a bit so her hand is half caught under Shaw's body, the slight alteration making the contact into something secure.

It feels like hours before Root lets her come, though the clock says it hasn't been more than forty-five minutes. Even with the fans running the room remains sticky hot, and Shaw finds herself watching the sun that slips through the curtains to stripe the wall and the dresser and Root's back. Root tips her head to the side so her cheek is resting on Shaw's lower stomach, watching the place where her fingers disappear under Shaw's underwear. The ends of her hair dance lazily across Shaw's side in the gusts from the fan, and her right leg is slowly going numb from supporting part of Root's weight.

When Root says "Ok, sweetie, whenever you want," Shaw braces her left foot on the bed and pushes up against Root's fingers. Her orgasm is long and easy, not as intense as usual but rolling through her nerves languid and warm and leaving her muscles soft and her whole body sinking into the mattress.

Root wriggles up so her head is on the pillow and she stretches out, just her feet tucked under the blanket where she's shoved it to the foot of the bed. Her back is to Shaw, and Shaw can see the marks her nails have left in the skin.

"I'm gonna fall asleep," Root says, sounding almost surprised. "Don't let me sleep all day, please."

"I won't," Shaw says, and, smirking a bit, "I can think of a couple ways to wake you up."

Root makes a little humming noise in her throat. "I can't tell if that's meant to be hot or ominous."

Shaw snorts. "I'm still deciding."

Root squishes her face into her pillow and soon enough her breathing evens out. Shaw lies there for a wile until the heat stops making her drowsy and only makes her feel out-of-breath and sticky. She goes out into the living room and opens all the windows to encourage air flow. She sits down at her computer and scrolls through her school email, answers a couple that don't need much thought. She emails her mother to tell her about her adventures in networking, then downloads the updates to her security software. Ten minutes have gone past. She googles 'androgyny' and spends a while reading about David Bowie and Annie Lennox and Sandra Bem.

Root doesn't talk about her issues with her body, usually, beyond explaining the ways she's usually either mostly disconnected from her physical form or too-closely connected and overwhelmed by the awareness of existing. Shaw had seen the ace bandages she'd been using to flatten her breasts and broken the unspoken rules of silence to outline the dangers. The Machine had been the one to order her a binder from some special web site. It looks uncomfortable as shit to Shaw, but some days it clearly helps Root. Other days Root pretty clearly couldn't care less about her body and the assumptions people make about it. Most of the ways Root engages with the physical world are things she's practiced or thought through intensively, databases of scripts and actions and shortcuts she calls on to suit each situation.

Shaw gets it to an extent. Growing up she'd had to figure out the right words and body language to convey the degree of emotion people expected to see in reaction to particular stimuli. Her parents had never pressed for that sort of thing from her, but it sometimes made her interactions with teachers or doctors go easier if they didn't start trying to figure out what they thought must be wrong with her. She's pretty sure there had been a couple times, when she was young, that her mother had been accused of failing to provide her with the psychological help somebody thought she needed. She's never talked about it, but Shaw's aunts have told stories of people who were eager to find any excuse to find her parents lacking-- her mother's race, her father's military career, whatever they could point at to explain why little Sameen wasn't smiling like the other kids in the class photo.

Root, on the other hand, experiences the emotions in full force, but simply refuses to prioritize them above logic or convenience or... most things, really. Shaw's seen her casually dismiss something with a wave of the hand even as actual tears streamed down her face. Shaw, who has by necessity gotten very good at reading other people's emotions and predicting their reactions, finds Root fucking impossible to read sometimes.

"You matter more to me than any other human in the world," Root had told her over breakfast one morning, about a year after they'd met, and then been honestly confused when Shaw had been kind of stunned and leery. It'd been a bit of a shock, and Shaw had felt a bit uncomfortable with the degree of importance this placed on her, as well as the way she couldn't truthfully say it in return. Root had just shrugged, like it had been no big deal.

"That's just how it is," she'd said. "I'm not expecting anything of you because of how I feel."

Shaw had wanted to tell her 'you can't just say that sort of thing,' but she knows what it's like to have someone else tell you how you should feel.

Shaw fucks around online for a couple hours, then makes herself some pasta and frozen vegetables that she eats in front of the TV watching a baseball game.

She wakes Root up at 8:30 by going down on her, because she's a great human being like that and if she dumped ice water on her head it would be Shaw's pillows that would suffer. Shaw pours a drink while Root flops around pitifully on the bed, half awake and pouty and all shaky from her orgasms. She brings Root a gin and soda and takes her own cheap whisky into the shower. By the time she's out Root has pulled herself together enough to actually get out of bed, and she's got a bundle of clothes in her arms that she takes into the bathroom with her.

Shaw combs and braids her hair, tugs on jeans and a soft button-down that she's cut the sleeves off of. She's doing her eyeliner when Root comes out, so it takes a few seconds before she looks up.

She stares. Root leans up against the doorway, cocking a hip. Her boots make her at least six feet tall.

"So?" she asks, smirking.

Shaw licks her lips. "You're going to die of heat stroke," she says. "Have you ever worn leather pants before in your life?"

Root pouts. "Your lack of faith hurts me."

"I'm serious," Shaw says. "You must have other going out clothes here. If not I've got a couple skirts that'll fit you, and some of the pants Cole bought when he was sick and turned into a skeleton will probably fit you too."

"I bought these special," Root says.

"And if it were October and we were going to a kink party I'd say they were an excellent investment," Shaw says. Root huffs, but she perches on the edge of the bed to unlace her boots and squirm out of the pants. Her underwear matches the black lace of her corset top, and Shaw takes a minute to admire the contrast of the fabric on her pale skin.

Shaw holds up a couple skirts from her closet--the only skirts she owns, actually--which have all been purchased exclusively for clubbing and which will all be notably shorter on Root than they are on Shaw.

"Hmm," Root says, mock-thoughtful. "Black, black, or black?"

Shaw stares, flatly. The only colour in Root's outfit is the dark purple on the sides of her top and the silver buckles on her black velvet cuff bracelet. Root grabs the skirt out of Shaw's left hand and tugs it on. The fit isn't perfect, but when she stands up Shaw can't help but appreciate the view. It's verging on indecent, but Shaw can guarantee that compared to what most people will be wearing Root will be entirely unremarkable.

"I got you something when I was shopping," Root says once she's put her boots back on.

"...I reserve judgement until I see what it is," Shaw says.

Root rummages through her messenger bag, coming up with a long, narrow cardboard box. Shaw frowns.

"If that's a collar I'm telling you now I'm not wearing it out."

Root holds up a hand. "I knew you'd say that. Which is why it isn't."

Shaw opens the box. "Oh," she says dryly. "Because this is much better."

It is, actually. A leather bracelet that's obviously high quality, plain but for a small abstract design in the metal of the buckle and a metal half-loop sewn into the leather. Root bounces a little bit on her heels, watching Shaw intently.

"It's soft," she says. "And practical! For clipping to things. Surprisingly sturdy."

Shaw shakes her head. "You're such a goddamn dork," she informs her, and shoves a few of the woven bracelets that she has yet to take off up her arm to make room. "C'mhere and put it on me, then."

Root sort of half-dives across the room so she's crouched beside Shaw, bracing an elbow on the bed. She's gonna have rug burn, and Shaw smirks internally. Root takes it out of the box and Shaw holds out her wrist.

The leather is soft, and Root pulls it snug before she buckles it. Shaw holds it up, wiggles her fingers. Root grins. It isn't like Shaw doesn't have a variety of bracelets or cuffs in the same style, but something feels different about this, something in the way Root's touch when she put it on her had been intimate without being sexual, the well-hidden nervousness she'd been projecting when she'd given the box to Shaw.

Root straightens the stupid multi-coloured bracelets and sits back. "Very festive," she pronounces. Shaw sticks her tongue out.

"Come on," Shaw says, when Root continues to just sit there, staring happily at her. She slides her wallet into her back pocket, and her phone into her bra. Usually she'd leave her phone at home, but Cole's supposed to be getting back from a job interview in DC by 10:00 and he might want to come meet them, and Root's outfit leaves absolutely no place for a phone and Shaw prefers that The Machine have a way to communicate with both of them, not just Root.

Root puts on lipstick such a dark red it looks like black, and settles her sound processor back in place after switching programs. Shaw digs her Doc Martins out of the closet and does a shot of the fucking terrible sugary schnapps that the lady across the hall had given them at Christmas and which mostly gets used as a dare or a last resort, while Root does something on her laptop.

When they get outside the sun is just setting and the stifling heat of earlier has dissipated somewhat. The air is heavy with the promise of rain, and everything smells like car exhaust and cooking meat from various balcony charcoal barbeques. They take a cab (Root pays), and the driver wishes them a happy Pride when he lets them out in front of the bar.

There's a line out the door already. Root leans up against the wall of the building while they wait. It's the kind of pose that makes Shaw think the Root of two years ago would have been smoking cloves by now. It makes something low and pleased settle quietly in the back of her head to see in Root's empty fingers clear evidence of the effect Shaw has had on her life.

Somewhere down the line Joss calls out a greeting to them, and they both wave back in unison. When Root's hand falls Shaw grabs it impulsively, linking their fingers together. Root grins down at her as they move a few feet forward then stop again. Behind them a group of loudly chattering teenagers thunder up (obviously this is the kind of place that doesn't card), and just in front of them a cluster of drag queens are passing a flask around and arguing about politics. Root's hand in hers feels like something solid, something concrete. A connection in this mass crowd where she is meant to feel some sense of larger community that she has never achieved. She looks up at Root.

"It's better," she says, carefully. "It's better when you're here than it is when you aren't."

Root squeezes her hand hard. "Yeah," she says. "For me, too."


End file.
